


Kitten Claws and Mudblood Wars

by Catsintheattic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abortion, Animal Death, Centaurs, Child Abuse, Dark, Dark Magic, Death, Gang Rape, Gen, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Non-Linear Narrative, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-31
Updated: 2008-12-31
Packaged: 2017-12-04 04:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/pseuds/Catsintheattic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every crusade exacts a human cost, and Dolores is willing to see it paid in full.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kitten Claws and Mudblood Wars

**Six years old: when a legend is built**

“Mother? What is a ‘daddy’?”

“Who asks such silly questions, girl? A daddy is someone’s father, like your grandfather is my father.”

“Oh. So, does everybody have a daddy?”

“Yes, silly, they do.”

“Even I?”

“Of course.”

“Mother?”

“Yes?”

“Where -- where is my daddy?”

A frown. “Your father? He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“He died. Before you were born.”

“Oh ... that’s sad. It’s -- it doesn’t matter.” She was quick to offer reassurance when she saw her mother’s scowl. “But he -- my father, he was -- like us, wasn’t he, Mother?”

“Like us?”

“Magical, Mother. He was a wizard, wasn’t he?”

She never saw the hand shooting out to grab the front of her blouse until her mother shook her hard.

“Who? Who told you differently?”

She squirmed. “No one, I swear. No one did. Ellen tried to tease me, that’s all, I promise! She said I look like a toad and that maybe my father was a frog and not a prince.”

Her mother’s face contorted in a mixture of disgust and anger, with her nostrils flaring and her upper lip curling away from her teeth. “Muggle tales of princes turned into frogs by evil witches. Don’t believe that kind of nonsense, ever!” 

More to herself than to the little girl, she added, “I wish we could afford a better place to live, away from _them_.” 

Then, interrogating again: “You didn’t tell Ellen, didn’t you?”

The girl shook her head. “No. She doesn’t know that you can do magic.” She paused, then asked, “When I’m older, I will be able to do magic, too, won’t I? Because you are a witch and my father was a wizard.”

The hand released her and balled into a fist at her mother’s side. “He was a wizard, Dolores. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

He was a wizard. A hero probably. A prince.

**Eight years old: how wings are clipped**

Her grandfather sat on the bench in front of the geese house. He held a goose firmly between his knees, outstretching one of its wings. The goose was hissing loudly, and more excited geese were flapping around in the small, fenced patch of the garden behind him.

“Hello, Gramps,” Dolores said, running towards him. “What are you doing to the geese?”

He looked up and greeted her with a smile that made the wrinkles on his face run in every direction.

“Hello, Dolores, my sweet. I’m clipping their wings.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Clipping their _wings_? You _cut_ them?” This was her beloved Gramps, who called her ‘sweet’ and gave her Sugar Quills. Why would he hurt the geese? 

He studied her startled face. “Not in the flesh. It’s only the quill-feathers, the ones they need for flying, you know? It doesn’t hurt them. It just prevents them from flying away.” He spread the second wing out for her to see, and pointed. “Look, these are the feathers that have to be cut. Want to give it a try?”

She took the scissors, still hesitant, yet eager to please him. Her hand trembled a little and she could feel a film of sweat collecting between the metal and her fingertips.

“Easy, my sweet, you don’t want to cut too deep.” He steadied her shaking hand. “That’s more like it. Now ... make the cut.”

With a snap from her scissors, the first quill-feather sailed smoothly towards the ground.

“See,” he said, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Dolores let out a nervous giggle. “Yes, Gramps, and I didn’t hurt the goose!” She felt relieved, and maybe, when she though about it, a little proud as well.

When they were done, her grandfather released the goose into the pen and closed the gate firmly behind it. The goose shook its ruffled feathers and walked towards its fellows, quacking loudly. 

“You did well,” her grandfather told her.

The praise let her pride swell and, this time, Dolores fully acknowledged the feeling. She beamed at him. 

“Are you hungry?” She nodded, her hair flying wild, and he laughed out loud. “That’s my sweet, always hungry! Let’s look what I’ve put in the oven for us to eat. And I have a beautiful Sugar Quill for your dessert. How does that sound?”

She sneaked her hand into his and felt the firm grip. “That sounds lovely, Gramps.”

Later, on her way back home, the Sugar Quill cracked between her teeth, flooding her mouth with sweet, delicious fudge.

**Nine years old: when first signs of magic appear**

“Toa-ad, toa-ad, Dolores is a toa-ad!”

Ellen danced around her, pointing. 

“I’m not!” 

“Of course you are! Look at you: you’re short and squat, your mouth is wide, your eyes bulge and you have mud-brown hair. You are ug-ly, ug-ly like a toa-ad!”

Ellen tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder, pointing and dancing. “I bet that you practise simpering, or otherwise you’d croak!”

Dolores bit her lip. She hated Ellen, who was two years older and who ruled the neighbourhood. It was easy for Ellen to make fun of Dolores, who wasn’t pretty, just clever. But _clever_ didn’t count in a neighbourhood full of children. What counted were a quick mouth, and a ruthlessness Dolores didn’t possess. Well, she might have it in her, but she couldn’t be daring and take risks in a fight. Not with her mother fretting all the time that _the signs_ would show. Her grandfather had told her that _the signs_ were more likely to break out under pressure. If _the signs_ did show, they’d have to move. And they couldn’t afford moving. On the other hand, if _the signs_ didn’t show, that’d be even worse. Dolores felt tears stinging in her eyes and fought hard to force them back. Her mother would give her an earful if she found out that Dolores had cried in front of the other children. 

She resorted to shouting. “I wish ... I wish all you hair would fall out and you’d have warts instead!”

Ellen laughed again, her voice tinkling in the air. If only Dolores were able to beat Ellen up, to show her, just once, how it felt to be downtrodden and made fun of. If only Dolores could do magic! If only -- 

“My hair! My hair! No! What did you do to me?”

Ellen’s laughter had turned shrill, even hysterical.

Divided between fascination and panic, Dolores watched as the blonde strands came loose from Ellen’s head. A strong wind had risen, and it tore at Ellen’s hair while she tried to clutch it, now sobbing. Dark blotches bloomed on the back of her hands and quickly formed into warts.

Dolores felt her mouth twist. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to grin or scream. Somehow, her wish had come true. She wasn’t sure how she’d done it, but she didn’t doubt that it had been her doing. She had fought back. 

She had -- they would have to leave and – it almost hurt to think this through – her mother would be so angry! Dolores felt her lower lip quivering. But she had -- she really had -- _the signs_. The magic signs. She had done it. _Father_ , she thought. She was magical. Just like him! 

She looked up from her inner turmoil to find Ellen still standing in front of her, almost bald, sobbing into the palms of her hands. The grin won out on Dolores’ face.

“Who’s bald and warty like an ugly toad now?”

**Nine years old: when a secret is discovered**

Two weeks later, they were out of their flat and had moved back to her grandfather’s farm. Life didn’t have a single flaw, even though she and her mother had to sleep in a room that wasn’t a real bedroom, with a make-shift bed for her mother and an old sofa to sleep on for Dolores. She could tell from the lack of gratitude that her mother wasn’t content to find herself at her father’s grace. But as far as Dolores was concerned, she decided to enjoy their stay as long as it lasted. The two adults were tight-lipped about their arrangement during the day, and so Dolores slipped out of her room at night in the hope of finding out more. Maybe they would be more open about the conditions of their stay when they didn’t expect Dolores to be listening?

Overhearing their conversation was easy, with all the crooked doors and hidden corners in the house.

“I always told you that magical children shouldn’t live among Muggles. We are too different and they don’t understand our ways. Making fun of her and telling her that she looked ... what? Toad-like? No wonder she exploded like that.”

“You know there was no other way. I couldn’t have stayed. I had to leave.”

Her grandfather said nothing, and Dolores could see the glowing of his pipe in the darkness. 

Then, her mother continued. “You know that, don’t you? They would have asked questions.”

“And now, Mabel? Don’t you think they are going to ask them now?”

“No. Now, it’s different. People know Dolores from her visits here. Besides, we won’t stay long at your house. We need a place of our own. Away from the river.”

Her mother hated the river that ran behind the house. Dolores was strictly forbidden to play there, ever.

“Silly girl.” Her grandfather chortled. “You don’t have the money to pay for a place of your own.”

“I will. Soon.”

The conversation died away and Dolores was almost considering going back to bed, lest she should fall asleep in her quiet little corner and be discovered, when her mother spoke up once more. Her voice sounded rough; it carried a reluctance that reminded Dolores of someone trying to touch something vile and ugly.

“His -- his own people had cast him out. I didn’t know why, until it was ... too late. That’s why her features are so -- so -- like they are.”

“Silence! I don’t want to hear about it. You made a mistake, and you paid for it. Now, don’t let it harm your daughter. Let her keep her head held high. Allow her to grow up among her own kind, where she belongs, without being looked down.” With these words, her grandfather stood up and left for his bedroom.

Scolded, her mother hung her head, just like Dolores did when she was told off. The sight made a shiver run down Dolores’ spine. Whom was her mother talking about? It couldn’t be -- but no, it had to be ... it had to be her father. She had been talking about Dolores’ father. He had been an _outcast_. But why? Surely there had to be a reason for a hero like him to be misunderstood. Maybe people had been making fun of him, like they had of Dolores. But he didn’t want to hurt his own kind, because he was good. And so he had left his people. 

Dolores dreamt with her eyes open, picturing a beautiful, benevolent prince on a horse, who later became a powerful wizard, and much later – _it was too late_ – must have been killed. He probably didn’t die a hero, as she had always suspected, but was _murdered_ by a traitor. Someone who envied him, a Muggle, eager and vicious enough to trick him into a trap and sneak up to him from behind. There was no way her father could have been killed in an open duel between wizards.

Dolores had almost forgotten about her mother, when the woman stirred in the neighbouring room. Her whisper was nearly inaudible in the darkness. “If I had known, I’d never have been so stupid. I went back just one more time. I had a rock with me to bash his head with. I was pregnant, with murder in my heart.” 

Dolores sat on her spot, frozen. What had her mother done? What had she confessed? Her father had been a wizard, powerful, yet misunderstood, an outcast to his people. Had she really ... killed him? She hadn’t said so, not explicitly. She had only confessed wanting to kill someone. But why had Dolores’ father left his family? He must have had a reason to go away from them, a mission more pressing, much more important than to protect his wife and daughter. He couldn’t have wanted to part from her, he loved her! Her mother must have got it all wrong. She couldn’t have killed him, she couldn’t! 

Dolores’ head spun. Mabel wasn’t particularly forgiving, not to Dolores at any rate, but to imagine that she -- no! She must have been mad at Dolores’ father about something, and she was angry at Dolores a lot of times as well. Because Dolores was so much like her father. Maybe she had driven him away with her anger and her nagging. Maybe she had imagined killing him and then the Muggles had come and lured Dolores’ father into a trap. And now her mother felt guilty, like Dolores had felt just a little guilty when Ellen had lost her hair. Pride swelled in Dolores’ chest as she worked it all out. 

But what should she do? She was only nine years old; she couldn’t walk away, not like her father had done. Besides, Muggles weren’t worth living among, Gramps had made that clear. They had very likely killed her father. Her mother was confused and angry and would give Dolores a hard time. She might let Dolores off the hook when Dolores worked hard enough and tried to help her. Dolores clenched her fists. She would do her best to be a good girl, to fit in and to prove herself worthy of the magic signs.

**Ten years old: how the meaning of a name is revealed**

As soon as Mabel could afford it, they moved to a small flat of their own. Her grandfather thought it was silly, a waste of effort and money, but Mabel insisted, and they had a terrible row.

The arrangement didn’t bring much of a change for Dolores, though. She still visited her grandfather every evening and at the weekend, because her mother was always busy with one of the several jobs she worked at to make a living.

Dolores’ job was taking care of the flat. It should have been an easy task, but her mother was never satisfied. Even with every corner of the flat neat and clean, she still found something to complain about.

“You are not a pretty girl, Dolores. It also seems that you don’t have the female touch to make a pretty household. So, I suggest that you make extra efforts. Make sure that the décor is always tasteful and feminine. You know: pretty pictures on the wall, lace and covers for the furniture, a tasteful dress to cover the less flattering features of your build. Life in this community is hard enough without you neglecting your duties. We can’t afford sloth and neither can we afford to put off our neighbours.”

Dolores winced. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and she felt her nose clog up. At ten, it was hard to be confronted with the notion that she would never be pretty.

“Am I hurting you, Dolores?” Her mother gripped her chin and tilted her head upwards, to look her in the eyes.

“N- n- yes, Mother.” Her voice shook. Pretty dresses, pink and frilly. 

Mabel let go of her chin. “I have to. Dolores means _pain_.” 

_Then why didn’t you give me a different name?_ The question rushed into her mind, but the words never left her mouth.

They had run from the Muggle world, afraid of being harassed for what they could do. But the wizarding world wasn’t the warm, welcoming place Dolores had hoped to find. The neighbours frowned upon them, her mother chased her around, and the range of Dolores’ accidental magic was too limited to make a difference. But the harder it was for her to live up to the expectations, the more determined she grew.

Getting her Hogwarts letter on her eleventh birthday left her stomach churning with anticipation. She was eager to learn the proper use of magic, to find her place in society and to redeem herself from the stigma of never-being-good-enough. She knew that she would miss her grandfather, and was fidgety with guilt. But in the end, presented with the long-awaited chance to get away, her relief won out.

**Eleven years: when cruelty sows inspiration**

“Dolores! Would you care to come into the living room for a moment?”

The girl blanched. Her mother’s voice had taken on the sharp edge she had learned to associate with trouble. When she arrived in the living room, her mother stood, hands on her hips, looking at the carpet.

“Take a look here!” She pointed towards the frayed edges of the carpet. “Do you see those scratches? Do you have any idea what caused them?”

Dolores knelt down on trembling knees. To divine the culprit was an easy task. To name it – not nearly as much.

“I -- mother, he didn’t mean it!”

“Who did it?” Her mother cut through her stuttering.

“It must have been Snowball, mother.” Snowball – her white and fluffy-furred kitten. A welcome home gift from Gramps for her first holiday away from Hogwarts.

“And who is truly guilty of letting Snowball into the living room?”

“That -- that would be me, Mother.” She kept her eyes fixed on the carpet.

“What have I told you about letting your kitten rampage about our home?” 

Her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard. Dolores’ teeth clattered from the impact and she forced her gaze away from the carpet and into her mother’s face. 

“I’m s-sorry, Mother.” 

“Didn’t I tell you to close the door to your room and pay attention? Do you think we have enough money that we can afford wreckage every other day? Do you?”

“Yes, yes, you did. No, I don’t.” And again, “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

The blue eyes, full of fury, grew cold. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I will show you the meaning of ‘sorry’.”

Her mother dragged her from the room and into the kitchen, Dolores stumbling in her wake. 

She was pushed down onto one of the chairs, the one she used to sit in to do her holiday homework every night after finishing her household duties. Her mother placed a quill and parchment in front of her.

“You will write me an essay in which you will contemplate your misdeed. Keep on writing and don’t dare to slow down. You know that I’ll know if you do.”

She gave a little, desperate nod. “Yes, Mother.” With a shudder, she picked up the quill and waited.

Her mother waved her wand and Dolores felt the incantation swishing over the back of her hand and hitting the quill.

The quill transformed in her hand, its stem thickening and growing rough. Thorns sprouted from the newly transformed twig and threatened to pierce the tender flesh of her palm and fingers. She loosened her grip a little.

“Don’t, Dolores. Hold it properly and start to write.”

She closed her fingers around the stem. Her father had been a hero. Surely he had suffered worse. The thorns cut into her thumb and forefinger. Stifling a sob, she started to write. _Why I must not talk back to my mother, and pay better attention to her words._

Very soon, blood was dripping from her finger and running down the stem. It mixed with the ink and left oddly-coloured blotches in the neat lines of her writing on the parchment. She would never get away with sloth and disobedience.

Bad children had to be punished.

**Thirty-three years: Defence Against the Dark Arts Teacher at Hogwarts ******

Examining a Muggle pen she had confiscated from one of the Muggle-borns who had brought the foul thing to school, she realised with fascination how the pen was fuelled by the ink from its reservoir. A quill one didn’t have to dip into the ink-well. Two images fused – the one of bloodied ink and the one of the self-serving quill. From there on, it was easy. Two days later, she examined her special quill. A black feather and a very, oh so very sharp tip.

_Dolores means pain._

She couldn’t wait to try it out. And Potter, as always, came to serve his purpose.

**Eleven years: when resources come to play**

Essence of murtlap was helpful to soothe her bleeding hand. Dolores lay on her bed, contemplating her punishment and watching Snowball’s happy play on the rug. He pawed at the rug, pulling another few threads out of the already battered piece. Dolores felt a frown creep onto her face. Snowball couldn’t do this any longer. She had to teach him the difference between right and wrong.

Determined, she stood up and pulled the kitten from the floor. He meowed in protest and stretched his claws towards the rug, promptly tangling them in the fabric. Dolores knelt down and started the slow process of separating the rug from the kitten’s paws. Snowball struggled and she felt a sharp pain in her hand.

“If you didn’t have those claws, none of this could have happened.”

No -- she couldn’t do _that_ , could she? She sat hard on the floor, cradling the kitten in her lap, stroking the fluffy fur, images of hissing geese in her mind. She couldn’t do that to Snowball, could she? But then again, clipping _her_ nails didn’t hurt a bit. All she had to do was to take care that she didn’t cut too deep. She jumped up, ignoring the indignant hiss of the kitten, and started to rummage in her drawer for a pair of scissors. She could manage all right; she had managed to handle the goose at a much younger age. And Snowball was much friendlier than a goose.

The operation went fairly well. Certainly, at one point, she pinched Snowball’s right front paw, and she cut too deep into two of the nails on his left hind leg, but apart from that, she did a good job. She wiped away the blood with an old cloth and bandaged the leg. When she was finished, the kitten sat on the rug, washing its ruffled fur with an uninjured paw and pointedly ignoring her. 

“Stop sulking!” she told him. “It was all for your own good. Now, Mother won’t be angry at us any more.”

Deeply satisfied, she went to bed.

Unfortunately, kitten-claws had a way of growing back. After several weeks, Dolores noticed that the nails on Snowball’s paws were long again, and she repeated the clipping. But she knew that she had to look for a more permanent solution. She needed to take care of the problem before she returned to Hogwarts.

The week before September the first would be ideal. Then she could see if the claws would re-grow in spite of her treatment.

She waited until her mother had gone, then closed the door to her room. Snowball was playing on the carpet once more. Dolores picked him up and placed him firmly in her lap. Determined, she raised her wand.

**Thirty-three years: Hogwarts High Inquisitor**

Potter was so predictable. Full of anger, a hot temper and no control at all. Baiting him was almost too easy. Without his friends to hold him back, Potter would have been lost. _The hero of the wizarding world._ She coughed in contempt. It was time for everybody to see how mentally unstable the boy really was.

Here he was knocking again. She knew that he ripped the bandage off his hand right before her office. Maybe, in time, he would learn, or suffer the consequences.

“Come in,” she called out towards the door.

 _Bad children had to be punished_.

**Eleven years: how life takes a sharp turn**

A fire was blazing in the hearth. “Gramps,” she screamed. “Gramps, help me, please! I -- I va -- oh my god, Gramps! I vanished away his paw!”

She had screamed herself hoarse. He knees hurt from kneeling on the hard wooden floor. But her grandfather wouldn’t answer her call. Of course ... it was the day he had wanted to go and sell the geese. She sobbed uncontrollably. She was alone.

She closed the fire-call and dragged herself up from the floor. She had to go back and take care of her kitten. And in her room, there was Snowball, lying on the floor with one of his paws completely removed. He had struggled too hard, so her _Evanesco_ had missed. 

“Oh, Snowball,” she crooned, cradling him in her arms.

His white fur was wet from his fearful exertions and he licked her hand weakly. She could see how much he suffered. Her mother would be furious with her for damaging him.

But when her mother finally came home and Dolores confessed everything, pleading with her to heal the kitten, all she did was smile.

“Well, Dolores, you caused the trouble, didn’t you?”

“I did, and I’m sorry, and you can punish me for it, but please, Mother, please heal him. Make his pain go away. He’s been screaming for hours. I should have never, never done it to him. Please.”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have done it. And I will punish you. But I can’t heal him. The time since his paw was lost is too long. It won’t come back. If you had asked me, if you had waited – we could have done the spell together. But no, you didn’t. You have no trust in your own mother, Dolores. You sneaked Snowball inside the house behind my back when you brought him here. And you sneaked behind my back to cut his claws and _Evanesco_ them. You didn’t want to bring the problem to me, and now, you shall deal with the result on your own. And I absolutely forbid you to turn to your grandfather.”

“I -- I don’t know ... what to do,” Dolores confessed in a low voice.

“He’s suffering, Dolores. Don’t you think you should put him out of his misery?”

“You mean ... kill him?”

“I mean to end his pain.”

The door clicked shut. Dolores sat and stared at the softly mewling kitten. Her heart was hammering like a trapped animal that wanted to leap from her chest. She couldn’t do it, she simply couldn’t. How did one kill a kitten at all? She had heard secret whispers about a set of curses called the Unforgivables, but of course, she couldn’t perform them. What other options did she have? Strangle him? Drown him in the pond? Bash his head with a stone? She couldn’t do it, couldn’t even think of it.

But there he lay, a shivering bundle of misery, looking up to her for help. This was not the time for tears.

She angrily wiped them away, forced back another sob, and picked up the softest blanket she possessed. She wrapped Snowball up and, for a moment, cradled him in her arms before she placed him on the bed. Then, she pushed a cushion down on the lithe body until it stopped clawing for air. 

_Evanesco_ , she knew, was a spell she would never remember in the same way.

Two days later, she went to see her grandfather for the last time before returning to school.

“Is your kitten well, Dolores?” he asked.

She shook her head. There was no way she could tell him. 

“No, Gramps. I don’t know. S-Snowball, he -- he ran away. I forgot to close the door and he ran away. I’m sorry.”

He patted her head. “Oh sweet, that’s what kittens do if you don’t pay attention. Don’t show me such a sad face. I’m sure he’ll romp in the woods and maybe, one day, he’ll return.”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice flat. “Maybe he’s better off where he is now, with no one bothering about scratches on the carpet.”

“Your mother gave you a hard time about that?”

She shrugged. “It’s all right. I’m going to Hogwarts in another few days.”

And with that, they walked together towards the house.

**Thirty-five years: Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission**

The air in the Ministry’s interrogation rooms is sticky. She fans herself with her new and exquisite fan. It’s made of white peacock-quills, the finest and fluffiest that Galleons can buy.

She bends down to the crying girl. “Draw me a picture,” she says softly, “and the quill will come off. Draw me a picture of your mummy burning on a stake.”

“No,” comes a faint cry from the corner of the room. The woman chained to the rack lifts her head. Her face is streaked with sweat and dirt and blood. “Get your hands away from my daughter, you evil bitch!”

“Hem, hem.” Dolores clears her throat. “Such language. What will your little girl think of you, hm?”

The girl cries even harder. Dolores closes her hand around the little fist and presses hard. The tender body is shaking against her own firm posture. “You can do it. For your mummy. To end the pain. You will help her to never sin again.”

**Thirteen years: how a soldier is made**

The house was dark and her grandfather’s bedroom was even darker. Thick curtains in front of the window blocked out the light. She shuddered. Why would they keep the light away? Gramps loved to be outside, in the sun. Why wouldn’t the Healers let him see the sun?

She pulled her mother’s sleeve. “Mother? Why --”

“Not now!” came a tense hiss. “Can’t you see that this isn’t the time for your silly questions?” Her mother shoved her towards a chair at the bedside. “Sit down and stay put, Dolores. Can you do that?”

Dolores nodded, too unhappy to try again. She settled down on her stool and watched her grandfather, while her mother talked to the Healers. She tried to understand the conversation in the ante-room, but only shreds drifted over her, and they made little sense.

“... been three weeks already ...”

“... have you tried to ...”

“... constantly watching ... monitoring ...”

“... too much loss of his magical energy ...”

Gramps had turned his head in her direction and his eyes rested on her. His mouth moved without a sound. With a shock, she realised that he was trying to talk to her, and she hurried to his side. His breath touched her face in small puffs.

“My ... sweet ... you’re --,” he coughed weakly, “... here.”

She took his hand. “I am, Gramps.” His skin felt paper-thin and hot under her fingers.

“Good.” His head fell back into the pillows.

How long she sat she couldn’t tell, holding his hand and waiting frantically for him to continue. But when he opened his eyes once more, his gaze went right through her.

“Two paths,” he murmured. “I see two paths.”

She stroked his forehead and felt the heat radiating from it, before he batted her hand away.

“Don’t,” he whispered, “you’re blocking the view. Two paths; one of them is covered with roses. The other --” he drew another struggling breath, “-- the other is covered with brambles and thorns. I’ve -- I’ve got to ... choose.” Sweat stood out on his brow, but she didn’t dare wipe it away.

“Which one will you take, Gramps?”

“The -- right one. I’ve to take the one that’s right.” He seemed to gather strength from this thought, speaking almost fluently.

The right one. Roses or thorns. The decision seemed easy enough. He deserved to walk on roses.

“You, my sweet, you know, don’t you?” He suddenly pulled himself up into a half-sitting position, grabbed her fingers so tightly that it hurt, and bore his gaze right into her eyes. “It’s the path of the thorns that leads to heaven. The path towards hell is made of roses.”

She stared back at him, too full of pain for words.

“You know that, my sweet. Promise me --”

“Anything, Gramps, anything.”

“Promise me to take the right path, always, no matter how hard it might be. Promise me to fight for what is pure and holy in our world. You are my little soldier for the good side, aren’t you?”

She nodded, stricken with grief and emotion. “Always. I promise. Pure and holy. I’m going to make you proud.”

He slumped back onto the mattress. The next moment, a strangled sound erupted from his lips, he gasped for air, and started writhing and screaming in pain. 

Hard hands tore her from his side. Her mother shook her hard enough for her back to hit the wall, while the Healers tried to hold her grandfather down in his bed.

“What have you done to him? Couldn’t you leave him alone? Why did you have to sit on his bed instead of staying in your place? Why do you always neglect your duties, Dolores?” With a last shove, her mother pushed her into the corner of the room.

“Brambles and thorns! Brambles and thorns! They are tearing my flesh, but I mustn’t stray from the path.”

“Gramps!” she sobbed, fighting to get to him. And then, they both were at his side, each clutching one of his hands; hands that clawed at them in agony, unstoppable screams echoing through the room until he finally, mercifully, breathed his last.

**Thirty-five years: Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission**

When the locket is placed into her hand, she cannot suppress a proud smile from curling her lips. This is her reward, her price, her medal. The silver glitters prettily in the candlelight, and she watches the sparks dance along the curves of the big letter “S”. _“S” could stand for “Selwyn”,_ she muses. Yes, she can almost certainly tell that this locket is a family heirloom from one of the old pure-blood families. She will keep it safe – and benefit from its aristocratic radiance at the same time.

To nail the mad Auror’s magical eye onto the door of her office – she had never thought of it before, but when she wakes up the next morning, the idea is just there, like the last traces of a beautiful dream. Like the inspiring example of the ancestors she never had.

**Eighteen years: when the truth shatters**

The certificate was old, as old as fifteen-year-old parchment could feel to the touch of a human hand. The writing was pale, but still readable; spidery words that sat neatly on thin lines. It was a document from the wizarding world, and Dolores briefly wondered why her mother had taken the trouble to present her daughter to Healers instead of Muggle doctors at a time when they had been cut away from their own roots.

_Name of the child: Dolores Umbridge_  
Date of birth: 18th January, 1956  
Name of the mother: Mabel Umbridge  
Name of the father: unknown  
Blood status of the mother: pure-blood  
Blood status of the father: unknown  
Medical status of the child: The child shows an above average intelligence in comparison to the same sex- and age-group. Her emotional development is slightly inhibited, probably due to the single-parent status of the mother. Also, the child is reported to be prone to colds and has a dry but not painful cough. The investigating Healer suspects a blood status of mixed origin, which is often known to impair a child’s health. The broad mouth and short build suggest a possible Mermish paternal inheritance, whether from a pure Merman or from a half-breed cannot be concluded from the know facts. 

_Signed: Healer Aloius Spinwickle, 15th December, 1959_

A probable Mermish paternal inheritance. Mermish paternal inheritance. Mermish inheritance. Paternal. Mermish. 

He had been a filthy half-breed – a cross between a wizard and a fish. A frog. A toad. The long-polished image of a prince crumbled to dust. Dolores felt like crumbling, too, like she was close to collapsing. But she didn’t crumble. She had come this far without loving her mother. She wouldn’t stop because she had been robbed of looking up to her father. A thief who threatened to take everything from her: her heritage, her reputation and her future.

She checked the folder. Aloius Spinwickle had been the Healer for all her childhood health checks. This at least was something. 

She had never been fond of _Evanesco_ after the incident with Snowball, but _Incendio_ worked well enough to get rid of the documents. After all, she was pure, a proper member of society, always striving to deserve the magic she possessed. As good as any pure-blood witch, able to work any spell to her advantage with a confident flick of her wand. She wouldn’t let the half-breed win. 

Dolores stared at the ashes and stifled an urge to cough. Instead, she put her wand away in her robes and raised her chin. _Magical Creatures_. Her mouth twisted in disgust. Mermen, Werewolves, Centaurs. There was nothing _magical_ about them. They were vermin, all of them. She would fight them for stealing from the pure-blood inheritance, for sneaking their way into the wizarding world. She wouldn’t let them take her rightful place from her. 

There were only two more witnesses to get rid of.

**Twenty-one years: when a better truth is built**

For years, she had tried to be a good daughter, and failed every time. From now on, she would only aim for being a good citizen. A proper witch, working for the benefit of her fellow witches and wizards. For a better wizarding world, holy and pure.

She didn’t have the strength of a merman’s hands to hold down the struggling body, but _Incarcerous_ and ropes worked just the same.

“You failed our society, Mother. Procreation with a half-breed is against the law. But I won’t drag you in front of the Wizengamot. Not when you will serve me so much better dead than alive.”

Mabel stared at her with unmoving eyes. If she felt fear, she did an excellent job of not showing it. Dolores was almost willing to give her credit for her amount of self-control.

“I can hear them talking about me, Mother ... Poor Dolores,” Dolores went on in a mock baby-voice, “so dedicated. The Death Eaters even attacked her last living relative. She lost her mother, the poor thing, and yet she’s so graciously bearing that load. I can’t imagine how she’s coping.”

No reaction. No a twist in the corner of her mother’s mouth.

Dolores picked up the branch she had brought and put it between the unwilling legs, down there _where we never touch ourselves_. Mabel hissed at the contact.

“It’s wet from the river. That particular river, you know? Does that make it feel better or worse?”

Her mother denied her an answer.

Dolores forced the branch a little deeper. “You made mistakes, and now you’re being punished, Mother. Firstly, you shouldn’t have let him do that to you. Secondly, you should have killed the aberrance in your womb while you still stood a chance.”

For the next few minutes she worked the branch in silence, until finally, her mother spoke up.

“Killing is a sin.” Mabel paused and drew a shuddering breath. “I kept you. But I never loved you.” Her voice sounded flat, constricted. “You know that. You know why.”

Dolores simply nodded. Her hands trembled on the branch and she quickly let it go. She could have said _I know, Mother, I know, Dolores means pain_. But it didn’t matter any longer. When she opened her mouth and picked up her mother’s wand, it wasn’t to talk.

**Twenty-one years: Junior Assistant for the Werewolf Law Commission**

The _Prophet_ reported the death of Mabel Umbridge one day after the body was discovered. It didn’t fail to list every ugly detail of the deed.

 _Ministry workers are no longer safe! The mother of Dolores Umbridge, who is known at the Ministry as a faithful fighter for the purity of the wizarding race, was tortured and brought to death with her own wand,_ the text started. _What will happen next, when even the relatives of the youngest members of the Ministry aren’t safe any longer?_

It was a long article, even though it didn’t make the front page.

Dolores listened to the hushed voices of her colleagues, talking behind her back. When Cornelius Fudge offered her an extra day off, she politely declined. Fudge seemed lost about what to do, eager to soothe the pain she must be feeling. Finally, after tea and biscuits, and after a long speech and lots of hand-wringing, he asked her if working as Junior Assistant for the Werewolf Law Commission might give her a much needed distraction. 

Dolores accepted with a grateful little bow of her head.

**Thirty-three years: Ex-Hogwarts High Inquisitor**

When the Centaurs took her away, she remembered her mother. _Men are all the same,_ she had said. Maybe she had been right. Later, Dolores was certain that not all of the horses had participated. She had kept count. But at least Dolores would make sure that no aberration would rise from her womb to take revenge.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

_He raped me._

_You shouldn’t have let him._

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

After the humiliating walk away from Hogwarts and a short trip to Knockturn Alley, she Apparated back to her old home. She didn’t bother with unpacking her luggage. Still bearing the marks where Peeves had hit her with McGonagall’s walking cane, she uncorked the freshly bought vial and downed its content in one go. The potion tasted much more sugary than she had expected, and for the first time in her life, not-nearly-sweet-enough was enough. Then, she removed most of her clothes and crawled into bed. In the same night, the cramps started tearing through her belly. 

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

Two days later, she was able to get up. She threw the bloodied rags into the fire, sat down at her desk, and started a letter.

 _Dear Minister Fudge,_ it went. _You will be happy to hear that I emerged from the mayhem at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in full possession of my health. I would like to return to my services for the Ministry of Magic as soon as possible. I would be pleased to meet you at your earliest convenience for a further discussion of these matters._

_Yours faithfully, Dolores Umbridge, Senior Secretary to the Ministry_

Waiting for the Owl to return, she tried to block out the sounds.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

**Thirty-five years: Head of the Muggle-born Registration Commission**

“Hem, hem.” Dolores clears her throat and stands up. It’s not that she will be able to see more that way, or that her audience will see more of her. It’s simply the way these things are done, and she will be damned if she ruins the protocol on her day of triumph.

“Today is an important day for the Ministry, for the wizarding world and last of all, for me. The Muggle-born Registration Commission will finally start its work. And what important work it is. Too long has been the time since Muggles, disguised as wizards, have walked among us and stolen from us. They have pretended to deserve their wands, and even more insulting than that, to deserve a place among us – as colleagues, scholars and students – while infecting our ancient culture with their Muggle filth. I myself saw the outcome of insubordination at Hogwarts in my time as Hogwarts High Inquisitor; a time that was calculatingly cut down at the height of its success by a wizard who later was proved to be a half-blood himself: Rufus Scrimgeour!” 

Dolores feels a rush of excitement. True, it has been Fudge who has called her back after the disaster in the Ministry, but it is much easier to blame the failure solely on Scrimgeour, who will never rise to his defence from the grave. She eyes her audience. Every twitch of a lip or roll of an eye will give her information about the loyalty she might expect from her subordinates. At first, they all seem restrained enough, but her attention is caught by a young witch in the front row. The woman has long blonde hair and is stifling a yawn. Well, they all will be thoroughly tested, and Dolores will supervise the job so that it gets done properly.

“The Muggle-born Registration Commission wants to make sure that wizards can walk the streets and work in their jobs without falling victim to an impostor. We have a responsibility to make sure that wizards can stay in their homes safe at night without the fear of being murdered in their sleep by Muggle impostors, hell-bent on stealing our wizarding ancestry from us all. I personally will make it my first task to secure the endurance of wizarding culture and society. There is nothing wrong with Muggles as long as they stay where they belong; outside the wizarding world. But we don’t want them in our midst. And we will do everything to weed out those who think they can take our world from us.

Thank you for placing your trust in me. I won’t disappoint you.”

Pride. Power. Triumph. She has finally made it. Her pulse is racing, and she can hear the blood rushing in her ears. It is almost loud enough to drown out the speech of the Minister for Magic, who is thanking her for taking the post. She has it all, palpable under her grip. The purification of society. And she knows exactly where to start: in her own Commission. As her eyes set once again on the young witch in the front row, the corners of Dolores’ mouth pull into a wide, triumphant smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hp_darkfest and the prompt: "All sins have their origin in a sense of inferiority otherwise called ambition" by Cesare Pavese. 
> 
> A thousand thanks to calanthe_fics for the beta-reading and all her helpful suggestions, for the Brit-picking and the title.


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